Oaths and Steel
by IronSaint98
Summary: "Oaths and Steel. The only things that truly matter between nations." A House of the Riverlands born from a slight change of fortune three hundred years past answers the call of Riverrun as Tywin Lannister burns their homes. A young Lord just coming into manhood is given a vision of betrayal and death at the hands of one of his neighbors. And Robb Stark marches South.
1. Chapter 1

Oaths and Steel

The realm has gone to madness. The King dead, the Prince now king imprisoning one of his father's most loyal Lords, the Lannister army marching into the Riverlands...and Lord Frey sitting on his arse while his Liege Lord calls the banners. A young Lord, barely a man, snarls in disgust and crumples the letter in his hands. The maester a quivering lickspittle by the name of Rickon with barely enough links to make his chain complete averts his eyes as his lord stomps from the hall. The guardsmen posted at the entrance to the hall silently open the door and exchange a worried glance.

For the last three years their young Lord has run Stonekeep like a well drilled forging team. Every aspect of his admittedly small holdings has been carefully managed to grow and prosper in the wake of his father's death. The fields were expanded much to the joy of the smallfolk and the neighbouring Crannogmen that venture south occasionally to trade for food in exchange for medicines that are hard to acquire otherwise. A bold deal with House Mallister saw a small land grant to the Lord of Seagard in exchange for a large shipment of steel for plows and equipment for Stonekeep's levies, with the permission of Lord Tully.

The only hardship that he has been unable to avoid or resolve themselves has been the unending letters from House Frey peddling their daughters like wares at the market. And now this. Robb Stark, a boy no older than he, is leading the banners of the North south down the Neck and without a doubt he will have to cross at the Twins. And the Freys always get their tolls. He scowls as he makes quick strides for the one place of peace he has other than his bedchambers. The Godswood.

The Dwarf Tree, as it is known by the few who care to note his House's faith, is the smallest known Weirwood south of the Neck. The face carved into its pale bark is set in a firm mask as if ever faced with hard choices. A feeling that the young Lord of Stonekeep, Brandon Stel, is all too familiar with. The Godswood is silent as ever as he kneels before the Weirwood. He ignores the way the soft earth chills his skin through the fabric of his breeches. He prays for an hour, maybe more, with only the weakest whisper of wind as his company. Then a pain jabs into his mind.

* * *

"_...eeds a sheath! And every wedding needs a bedding!" the reedy and age cracked voice of a drunk Walder Frey rings out in the Great Hall of the Twins. Scores of men and women, mostly of House Frey, surge forward lifting Sir Edmure and Roslin Frey into their arms and spirit them away to their bedding chambers. Brandon smiles from beside a man larger than any he has ever spoken to and takes another sip of wine. As the feast winds down a certain song begins to play from the musicians in the balcony. A horribly off tempo performance, but still recognizable if only for the infamy of its origins. 'The Rains of Castamere'. A scream of pain and grief sends a shiver down his spine as crossbow bolts begin flying and Freys surge forward drawing swords and knives…_

* * *

"_...can't hold the bastards for long 'milord, there are simply too many of the weasley fucks," Captain Algren of his household guard grunts as another bar is nailed to the stout Ironwood gates of Stonekeep. The towering man from the Twins stands beside him and scoffs while running a whetstone along the edge of the ugliest greatsword Brandon has ever seen._

"_More the merrier. The Red Wedding will be repaid in Frey blood come the morning. I must say...Lord Stel that you are one of the finest men that I have ever had the honor of fighting beside." A strange emotion wells in his throat as he extends his hand to shake the larger man's paw._

"_The honor is mine Lord Umber. The Freys will pay for every _inch _of my land they have defiled with their every breath. And the betrayal of the North."_

* * *

_The gates shatter releasing a horde of Frey levies lead by the Black Walder. His few remaining men close ranks and grip their weapons tight. Brandon snarls and hefts his axe, the bearded head dripping with the blood of Freys. Steel and flesh crunch together in the now familiar song of battle joined. Bellowed war cries ring out as Lord Umber swings his massive sword in a great arc that cuts through two men in one stroke. Black Walder is before him with a blood streaked sword that buries itself in the rim of Brandon's shield. The look of shock on his face is exquisite as the axe chops down, deep into the bastard's neck nearly severing the head. Pain flares across his stomach as spears pierce his armor and find his flesh. All fades to darkness..._

* * *

With a gasp he wakes from the strange vision with a cold sweat running down his spine. His eyes snap up to stare at the face in the tree, his shoulders heaving as if he had just run the full league of the slope leading to Stonekeep. The tree maintains its silent and stern vigil. For a time he stares into the hard red streaked eyes of the Weirwood before nodding. The Old Gods sent a message through him. A task must be completed.

But the lessons of his childhood of the men who have attempted to force a prophecy's completion ring loudly in his mind. The rumors he has heard of Prince Rhaegar becoming obsessed with a prophecy send nervous butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

'_What if I become mad as they did in the past? Rhaegar brought ruin and death to the kingdoms with his dreams of prophecy and illusions of threats to the North. But can I afford to ignore this warning?'_ A cool breeze flits through the branches of the Weirwood caressing his cheek. The warmth in that breeze makes him shiver but for a different reason than the morning chill. It reminds him of his mother's presence before the fever took her. He sighs heavily and stands setting his shoulders. If the Old Gods have spoken...then the men of the Stonekeep shall answer.

"Ser Ronley! Muster the guard and call the levies. Riverrun calls and we shall answer," Brandon bellows as he returns to the 'Keep's courtyard. The muscular knight serving as the Master-at-Arms nods solemnly and mutters a few instructions to one of the guards before following his Lord into the Great Hall.

"Maester bring me the map in the second drawer of my desk in the study." Brandon clears one of the tables laid out for the morning meal of cups and plates, neatly stacking them to one side while the Maester who for some reason was still standing slack-jawed in the Hall scampers off to do his Lord's bidding.

"Ser Ronley, what would you say is the quickest that Lord Frey should be able to fully muster his levies?" Brandon begins as they wait for the Maester to return. The older man strokes his short, black, bushy beard in thought for a moment.

"They'll have about three hundred men-at-arms within the keep itself. The Twins is a solid defensible position and a few men with bows could hold it for weeks without worry. They can muster all told around three-thousand foot and another thousand knights...but as for how quickly they can muster I would say it takes a week for every outlying knight to muster with their retinue."

"How soon can we have our own forces mustered and ready to march south?"

"Five days my Lord. And we can reach Riverrun in two-and-a-half weeks. That makes it three weeks before Riverrun can expect our aid."

"I'm not planning on marching straight to Riverrun Ser Ronley but— ah thank you Maester." The weathered parchment map is swiftly unrolled and the corners are pinned down beneath a few empty mugs. Stonekeep is marked clearly on the map as well as its associated holdings in a light grey, two-hundred miles due north of Seagard and eighty-five miles northwest of the Twins. The Kingsroad is the only significant highway north to south in the Kingdom with almost all trade and the majority of military movement being based around it. The numerous other roads between keeps and cities are smaller and can be either better maintained or worse.

An army in Westeros has many considerations; with the sheer number of minor keeps and landed knights throughout the land to say nothing of the larger vassals of the Seven Kingdoms one must be sure to remove any threat along their line of advance and guard their supply trains, pick the roads that both take them to their destination the quickest yet are not too obvious or poorly maintained, and consider how rich the surrounding areas are for foragers to take the strain from the supply trains.

For Lord Stel the only road of immediate concern is the one leading to the Twins. From experience and the words of the merchants that occasionally come to the Stonekeep to ply their wares away from the keeps that have higher taxes the road is washed out ten miles north of the Twins and the ruts are worn deeper in places where the patchy woods of the Riverlands grow close to the woods. If it rains the supply wagons will become bogged down and slow the advance.

Brandon worries at his bottom lip as he considers the task to come. If the Old Gods sent him a warning _specifically_ about the Freys then he shall heed it.

"How much food and water can a man carry and still be fresh enough to fight at the end of a march, if we only push them _hard_ the first two days?" Ser Ronley frowns deeply and crosses his arms.

"Four days my Lord. But who are we trying to catch by surprise? The Lannisters are coming up the Golden Tooth and they are hardly subtle with thirty-five _thousand_ men in that red and gold that they like to prance about in. A thousand men won't catch an army of _that_ size off guard and do any noticeable damage if that's what you're thinking." Brandon hesitates before glancing at the Maester. Thankfully Rickon shows some sense of the mood and leaves the Hall. The solid oak door booms in the sudden quiet and Brandon sighs heavily before turning a hard gaze on his Master-at-Arms.

"You converted to the Old Gods after the Trident did you not Ser?" A shadow flits across the knight's face and his hand falls to the pommel of his time-worn sword.

"Aye, the Seven did nothing to save my brother or my wife during that fever that came through. The only things that kept me sane was my son, and the daughter that came after my return."

"And if I were to tell you that...I had a vision while in the Godswood?" Ser Ronley stares hard at his young Lord. Though still thought of as little more than a lad by the rest of the world, the knight has been with Brandon since he was a boy. The world was always grounded to the young lad with actual history being preferred over the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall's heroics or the Dragonknight and his more fanciful aventures. He has never know the boy, young man he corrects himself, to be the kind to give in to flights of fancy.

"I would ask if you had hit your head followed by what the vision told you," he deadpans. The young Lord's lips twitch for a moment in amusement.

"I wish I had. I was show a vision of a wedding feast in the Twins and a great betrayal of myself and our allies to the Rains of Castamere, of holding Stonekeep against Freys with a Lord Umber of Last Hearth. And killing the Black Walder before Frey spears _skewered _me like a pig. Ser Ronley...I felt _everything_." The knights face grows more pale as his Lord speaks and Bradon's voice becomes more haunted. Ronley's eyes glaze over in thought, before he begins nodding.

"I...I think you might have indeed...been visited by the Old Gods my boy. It would seem they have a task for the men of Stonekeep." The older man reaches out and squeezes his Lord's shoulder in an expression of affection that he could never show in public for the boy who seems as a second son to him.

"Ordinarily I would be hesitant to believe such a claim...but I'm afraid that I can believe such a string of events all too easily." And then it dawns on him. He doesn't mean to march for Riverrun as Lord Edmure commanded, but to a different keep entirely.

"You mean to march on the Twins!" The younger man smirks and nods.

"Aye, the Late Lord Frey is going to sit this fight out and milk concessions from whoever looks to be winning. When Robb Stark and the Northern Banners arrive at the Twins, which they'll have to unless there's another crossing which we know there isn't, Frey will rob the Northmen blind or worse: get a marriage out of it. We're not going to let that happen."

* * *

Lord Walder Frey leers from beneath his thick eyebrows as his progeny eat their morning meal at the tables below his dias. His own meal of fish, flaky bread, and watered wine sits half finished before him on the table beside a pair of letters. One from King's Landing and the other from Riverrun. Both call for his swords to marshal beneath their banner but both offer _nothing_ to him. The Freys have collected their tolls for six _hundred_ years and have endured every war since. This new war shall not rock the foundations of his House. Everyone can see the greedy gleam in his eye at the thought of the opportunities that are sure to arise and to be exploited.

His progeny are by and large a dull lot much like their mothers. It's a wonder that the few that _are_ competent were even born. The news that the pup, Robb Stark, called his banners and marched them South brought no end of glee to his old heart, and sent his daughters clamoring for a marriage with this Northern Lord or some other. The pup will no doubt be full of the bravado of youth and the desperation of a boy without his father and thus the toll shall be great. For he cannot afford _not_ to pay it. A smile tugs at his age creased lips as he imagines the heights his family will ascend in the coming days. War has a habit of shaking the order of things in the most interesting ways.

That smile swiftly disappears as a messenger arrives through one of the side passages breathing heavily. A grunt brings him in close and he whispers the news into the old Lord's ear. Some of the more astute, or just ambitious, men at the lower tables watch the interaction with hungry eyes looking for any sign of weakness. Or opportunity. Not one of them likes the sight of their father going pale and reaching for his wine with a shaking hand.

"Shut up all of you! And get the full guard on the walls!" he shouts cutting through the low buzz of conversation like a knife through butter. Some of those with sense are sent scrambling for their weapons and the walls. The others stare at him idiotically like cattle.

"Go you Seven damned ingrates! The army of Stonekeep is at our gates! Send the ravens to our banners to hurry and bar the gates!" The last of his children are sent scurrying from the hall leaving him and his young wife alone. Lord Walder Scowls into his cup and swallows all of the wine in a single gulp before throwing it across the hall in a rage.

"That damned _boy_! What is he playing at?"

* * *

Lord Brandon Stel stares down the rise at the imposing sight of the Twins with the castles at either end of the massive bridge that took the Freys three whole generations to build. The twin stone castles are imposing fortresses in their own right with strong walls and tall towers with plenty of places for archers and stout gatehouses where pots of boiling oil no doubt await any unprepared ram crew. And if they weren't enough there is the Water Tower at the center: a single tall tower with two portcullis, murder holes and firing slits to pepper any assault with arrows. For six-hundred years the Freys have held the crossing and have never failed to extract their toll.

The young Lord smirks to himself. The Twins would have been impregnable to his force, a suicidal assault against four-to-one odds. But his archers are posted along the river and are all expert marksmen. No raven will escape the Twins to call the levies. A few of them march with the men of Stonekeep, the more northern knightly houses sworn to the Twins and minor knights have no love for their liege and despise him for not keeping to his oaths and marching to Riverrun as the rest of their countrymen do. Memories of the Battle of the Trident echo fresh in their minds of the shame _heaped _upon their houses by their association with the Late Walder Frey.

The full force of his lands a hundred knights, two hundred archers, and five hundred foot march at his back augmented by another twenty knights sworn to the Twins with another hundred and fifty some-odd foot attending them. Against the three hundred men on constant guard within the Twins. Taking the first fortress would no doubt shatter his army and the Water Tower is a pipe dream, but when Robb Stark and _twenty _thousand Northmen arrive on the _other_ bank of the Trident attracting their attention as well...

"The men are in place my Lord. Not a single bird is going to make it out of that rookerie. The baggage train is but a day behind schedule as well," Ser Ronley reports solemnly from atop his brown charger. Brandon nods quietly and rests his right hand on the head of his family's axe. His calloused palm enjoys the touch of the cold steel, the dents and scuffs in the metal, and the pointed teeth on the rearward facing hammer. The same weapon was used to defend the Stonekeep against the raids of the Crannogmen in the times before the Kings of Winter pacified them, the Weirwood haft is worn smooth by time and tells of the hands that have bore it through the ages. The supple, red leather cord wrapping about the end of the haft to form a grip is comfortable in his hand. It's deceptively light weight allows him to wield it with one hand and his Ironwood shield purchased from the Forresters of the North in the other.

The young Lord stands at ease before his most trusted and experienced knights, ignoring the unfamiliar weight of the chainmail hauberk and leather brigandine while quietly dreading the time when he must don the plate forged for him as a gift from one of his more powerful knights. While many of his fellow River Lords wear scales like the more southern Lords he prefers the armor of his close neighbours in the North as do some of his knights while the others wear full plate like the rest of the South. Many of those who abstain from full plate's heavier weight add a steel cuirass, pauldrons, and greaves for added protection during the charge.

"I want watchfires burning through the night and scouts watching for any of the other Frey banners coming from the south. If anything happens, I don't care what time it is, wake me I want to know of it. This is a bold move my good Sers...I know not how history will remember us or how Robb Stark will respond. One thing I do know is that we have essentially declared war on the Twins. Do any of you have something to say?" His dark brown, almost black, eyes sweep the assembled knights like a hawk. None flinch away from his gaze or avert their eyes. The challenge in his voice clear for all to hear.

"My House words are simple my good Sers: _Oaths and Steel_. The only things that truly matter between nations. Lord Frey needs to be reminded of them."

And the sun rises high. Shining merrily upon the banners of blue bearing a skull between crossed axes. In another time Catelyn Stark nee Tully negotiates from a position of weakness with Lord Walder Frey and betroths her son to a Frey maid. In another time and place Ser Edmure Tully stops Tywin Lannister at the Red Fork and unintentionally allows the Old Lion to receive word of Stannis Baratheon's assault on King's Landing. In another time and place the Tyrells come to the aid of the Crown and a Mad King come again. It is amazing how the flap of a butterfly's wing can affect history, or in this case a maiden of the Iron Islands washing ashore and meeting a River Lord before his death at the Field of Fire.


	2. Chapter 2

Towers and Wolves

Brandon spends the rest of the morning walking along the swiftly forming earthworks around the camp and exchanging idle talk with his men. He knows that even if there is no fighting to be had at the Twins it is not likely that he will be able to take them all back to Stonekeep's lands. Every few steps he glances at the jagged edifice of the Twin's southern fortress for any sign of an envoy being sent out to meet him. The archers, all expert shots after years of training every fifth day of the week with their longbows, have shot down no fewer than six ravens. The first was an expression of outrage to Riverrun demanding that Lord Tully marches with the full strength of the Riverlands to break the "terrible siege being waged against his lands. To cease the endless raping and looting being visited upon his people."

The Knights of Stonekeep had a good laugh at that seeing as the one man who tried to swindle an old man of his silver was gifted twenty lashes instead. Lord Stel might be young but he is no fool. This is the land of his people and to treat it otherwise is folly. His outriders are ever watchful for the hosts of Frey's banners that might come at any time should they discover what is happening. A messenger riding hard from home delivered the message that Robb Stark has departed from Moat Cailin four days ago making him just two days away from the Twins with the entirety of the Northern host at his back.

Lord Brandon smiles grimly at the panic that must be gripping the Weasel in his keep. A true siege hasn't even begun yet as there are no engines being constructed nor are trenches being dug ever closer to the walls, but it will only take a word before it becomes such. And the men under the banners of the Twins know it too. The sound of beating drums and stamping feet calls to him as he rounds the corner of the camp. Two blocks of men five deep and twenty across drill under the watchful eyes of Ser Ronley and a quartet of other veterans.

Steel spear tips bristle from the moving wall of interlocked tower shields giving the impression of some spined and scaled serpent moving as one. Steel nasal helms peek over the rims of their round shields revealing only their eyes. By and large, they are armored in gambesons worn over mail hauberks with the only plate pieces being the helm, and iron greaves. Each footman is armed with a spear, a dagger, and either an axe or a short arming sword. Relentless drilling over the course of a campaign can hone them into a capable fighting force, though right now they are green as grass. Brandon chuckles to himself. Isn't he just as green?

"Left! Left! Left wheel!" Ser Ronley barks the cadence and then snarls as the formation falls apart. Spears dip and gaps between shields yawn wide.

"No, no, no! You sorry sons of whores! We will run this drill until _I_ am tired if we have too! If you buckle like that against the Freys or, Gods forbid, the _Lannisters_ then you are all dead! The Mountain will rape your wives and daughters and crush their skulls! Your lands will _burn!_ Sergeants reset them!" the Knight thunders with all the fury of King Robert at the Trident.

"How are they doing Ser?" Brandon inquires quietly as he comes even with his second.

"As well as can be expected for farm hands doing their first lot of soldiering my Lord. Most are too busy fantasizing about becoming the next Ser Duncan the Tall than how to properly _guide to the fucking right you sorry slobs!"_ Brandon discreetly rubs one ear to free it of the ringing induced by Ser Ronley's furious roar. He can almost sympathize with the levies knowing how harsh of a teacher he can be firsthand. A shiver runs down his spine at the memory of the hundreds of blows to his shins and ribs at the hands of the Knight's tourney blade when first learning the axe.

"Apologies my Lord. I'll have them ready to take on the best of the Westerlands in less than a fortnight if we can drill them like this often enough. Ironically the _archers_ are the most stable of the bunch. I think it's more of the fact that they will be behind the lines, and are older for the most part. Some of them even fought with your father in the Iron Islands so they're not too green."

"I trust you Ser Ronley. I have faith in the men...it's only Lord Weasel that I worry about."

"Aye, nothing good comes of letting a shit like him do nothing but plot…"

* * *

Lord Walder Frey sits on his black oak chair and stews while his get argue with an ever increasing intensity. And still the boy sits outside _his_ castle on _his_ land...and he can do nothing about it. He now recognizes their situation for what it is. A power play and a threat. For all his life Walder has thought only of the advancement of his family and by extension himself. All of the other lords look down on him and his house. The Late Walder Frey they call him for withholding his men from the battle on the Trident until the outcome was well and truly decided. His Liege Lord, Hoster Tully, hates him for that.

The same boy of six and ten years sitting outside his wall playing soldier denies all of the offers of marriage from House Frey. As if a little frog fucker like him is to good for the Freys and the Lord of the Twins. Bah! They'll all learn once Tywin Lannister butchers them all and rewards the Freys for delaying the pup. Stevron, his son and heir, arrives from his walk on the walls to see the boy's host.

"Well? Any wise insights on the mind of this boy?" Stevron scowls.

"They are not making it a siege. Yet. They have formed their camp beyond bow range and are beginning to drill their green levies. And worse several of our northern vassals are with their army."

"Which ones?" _They'll all pay for betraying their betters!_

"Ser Brenard of Black House, Ser Drenner of Dwelnen Tower, and Ser Jon of Green Tree Tower at least. They brought their sworn swords and retinues with them I think as well, and perhaps some score of hedge knights have joined to bolster their numbers. Around a thousand men all told, maybe a hundred or so more." More than twice the fighting men of the Twins. Lord Walder grunts to himself and sips his watered wine with a sneer fixed on his lips.

"I want you to treat with this boy, find out what he wants and try and get him to come to me. I will not seem the weaker party." Stevron nods and flees the hall.

'_If only the rest were as competent as him...my family might have a future after me. Ah well. At least I still have a pretty wife.'_

* * *

Stevron keeps his misgivings to himself as he organizes a small party as escort. He thinks his father is wrong: this isn't a challenge or a threat. It's a reminder. He knew, he _knew_, that the decision to wait at the Trident was a terrible one. It has set a precedent of Freys being unreliable and self-serving. His father's decision cost them much in the way of influence and what little good will their family possessed among the other nobles thanks to his father's attitude towards anyone. Constant brooding and a penchant for holding grudges do him no favors and his pride is near permanently bruised.

But for all his faults and all his mistakes throughout the years he is still his father. And family is all. His hand falls to rest on the pommel of his sword in thought as horses are swiftly saddled. Banners bearing the twin towers of his family catch his eye fluttering from long poles along the battlements and hanging from the walls beside the gate, stained and sodden from light rains the night before and years of exposure to the elements as they are they still bring him pride. His family is one of the strongest banners of House Tully and as such can exert their will on many of the lesser houses as well.

This boy outside their gates, however, proves that their opportunism will not go unpunished by the rest of the world. Stevron sighs heavily and pulls himself up in the saddle of his horse. Men in the guardhouse crank the winch that raises the portcullis and others with crossbows tense on the battlements. With a deep breath to steady himself and focus his wandering thoughts Stevron Frey rides through the gates. He casts an appraising eye over the rapidly forming camp. The boy picked his ground well.

While pressing forward and beginning the construction of the siege lines would be contested, the slight slope leading to the camp will assist in defending it. A sally would have to rapidly close the distance without stopping which with full arms and armor up a slope, even one as gentle as this, would tire the attackers nicely. The camp itself forms a slight half moon with the inward curve facing the Twins and the outward towards the distant ridge and woods.

No doubt there are watchers set there to warn them of any approaching relief force. A force which both sides know will not be coming. All eyes are fixed south where the Old Lion and the Mountain are no doubt beginning to set the Riverlands aflame. The last raven that arrived at the Twins brought word of an early Lannister victory against Lords Vance and Piper. Not a good start to this war for the Riverlands. With a Lannister army marching on Riverrun there is no one to keep the Mountain and his raiders in check or better yet rid the kingdoms of their filth.

Stevron glances down the river bank and takes note of the few archers that he can see. In spite of himself he can't help but be impressed. The boy has sense for one so green. He must have an experienced advisor. The Twins are isolated with Stel on one side and Stark approaching on the other. Wolves and axes all waiting for their chance at the necks of Freys.

Stevron brings his escort to a halt beyond the earthworks. The men standing guard eye his party from beneath their nasal helms spears held upright and shields held across their chests. Blue batters with the crossed axes and skull standards of House Stel flutter at regular intervals along the earthworks announcing to the world who commands this force. A party of men lead by a boy of six and ten emerge from the small gap in the fortifications. Stevron stares down at the young Lord making no move to dismount. A threat and a message.

The Lordling is rather unimpressive to his eyes. A stocky build; wide at the shoulders and narrow at the waist with strong arms used to hours of practice with the axe looped through his belt. His mail is clean yet not overly polished so as to shine like many Lords and Knights prefer and the brigandine worn over it is rather plain. The cloak at his shoulders is lined with brown fur and finely made yet not overly ostentatious as one might have expected from a young man with money and power.

Black eyes like obsidian peer out from under a somewhat heavy brow. His straight black hair is tied back by a length of leather cord so as to keep it out of his way. His face is a mask of stone as he stares at the older man while resting a hand on his axe. The message is clear: you are not welcome. The men behind him perform similar actions while keeping a respectful distance between the two men.

"You did not answer the call of Riverrun." The blunt statement catches the older man off guard for a breath. As does the following question, as expected as it is.

"Why?" Stevron glances around at the knights behind the boy and his teeth begin to grind at the approval in their eyes.

"My Lord father bids you to enter the Twins so that we might resolve this dispute in peace."

"Dispute? No this is not a dispute: this is your Lord father not keeping to his _oaths._ He was bid to call his banners and yet every one of the knights sworn to the Twins received no such message, only that they were to be ready to march at a moments notice. And as for entering the Twins? No. If your father wishes to treat with me he will have to leave his precious chair or the bed he sleeps in with whatever girl was unfortunate enough to be sold to him. I will not kowtow to an _Oathbreaker!_" the boy snarls as he finishes his rant. Stevron can feel the blood rushing to his face in rage at the _audacity _of this _child_ to insult the Lord of the Twins within sight of his own keep and before his son and heir. With a great exertion of will and grinding of his teeth Stevron reigns in his temper. He is not the hard headed fool like Black Walder, or a lack wit like Aegon.

The older man stares hard at the Lordling and then swings himself from his saddle.

"I would treat with you on my father's behalf, he is not as spry as he once was."

"Yet still spry enough to bed everything in sight...it would seem." With a final parting shot the boy Lord Stel turns on his heel and leads the Freys through his camp.

* * *

The tent used by Lord Stel and his knights is colored in the same dull grey as the rest of the camp though it is twice the size to admit all the most powerful knights to his council. The center of the tent is taken up by a large camp table with a map of the Riverlands pinned to the surface. There are no chairs as Brandon believes that thinking is done best when standing and there are no banners or other decorations within. A servant makes his rounds through the nobles with a jug of river cooled wine and another follows with sweetmeats and cheese.

Lord Stevron is placed with his back to the tent flap as a subtle attempt to set him on edge by not being able to see who might enter from behind him. His frustration is evident when he looks at the map and sees no totems from which he might get news of the war's state. Brandon forms his face into a stone mask and waits for the servants to leave before beginning their talks.

"My Lord father bids you to take your men from his lands and to release the knights _sworn to the Twins_ from your service. These are not your lands, Lord Stel."

"Aye they are not. And if Lord Tully gets word of your betrayal, for this cannot be anything but, then they will not be _yours_ either."

"You would _dare_ accuse my family of being traitors to the Crown—"

"_No!_ I accuse your House of failing to come to their Lord's aid when called as you have sworn! We are not at war with the _Crown,_ we are at war with the _Lannisters_ that burn our lands and slaughter our people! Gregor Clegane is raiding the southern Riverlands and putting whole houses to the torch while Tywin fucking Lannister turns the lands to _ash _behind him!" Brandon booms making the Frey guards that accompanied Stevron flinch back and rest their hands on their blades.

"To war with the Lannisters _is _to war with the Crown!" Stevron retorts as if lecturing a child. The Queen Regent is a Lannister, the Royal children are more Lannister than Baratheon in looks as is the new King Joffrey. Tywin Lannister is well known for valuing his precious legacy more than anything else, only calling his banners in response to Lady Catelyn capturing Tyrion Lannister and taking him to the Eyrie. Whatever madness took her mind to do so is beyond them at this moment and they must deal with the consequences.

"That may be...but the Crown is not burning our lands when _winter_ is right around the bend, dooming our people to starvation and death. And not answering your lord's call is considered a betrayal which you have yet to deny."

'_How can I? All of our allies and neighbours will see it as such. Our House is already despised despite the marriages we have managed to secure. With this force here and Robb Stark soon to arrive on the other side we are in a weak position. Too reliant on the loyalty of our banners for protection.'_

"What is it you wan't Lord Brandon? What are you after?" The young Lord smiles sadly, rests his fists on the table and leans on them. His eyes convey his grief for a moment before they hide it.

"I want your father to hold true to his oaths without expecting anything in return, as it should be. When Robb Stark arrives he's going to try and marry off one of his daughters, and if the deal is not taken then he will deny passage. If he does that then I _will_ attack. And every man in your family will be put to the sword, excluding the children and the Frey Daughters. Your father will _not_ demand a price for the passage of the Starks. I don't wish to do this but it needs to be done: you need to be reminded of your oaths through _steel._"

Stevron stares numbly at the young _man_ in front of him. The threat implicit in the way he stands, the way his eyes burn with the vitality and resolve that has seen his house remain standing for all these centuries. Their words are taken into the core of their being: _Oaths and Steel._ They are molded around them and hold them in the highest regard. It has only been the strength of the Twins that has kept them at bay for all these years and now that they have the Freys all hemmed in Brandon Stel holds the power. They both know it: it might cost him most of his force but they _will_ take the Twins and they _will _end their line.

Family is all. His father taught him that...and now he must go against the wishes of his father to do the same. Ever since word was spread of the happenings to the South his father knew that the Stark boy would come with his father's banners and they would have to cross the Twins. Freys have always collected their tolls, and the marriages that would have been negotiated would have seen House Frey rise higher than ever before. And with one, brutal stroke Brandon Stel has cut the legs from under House Frey and made them seem weak before their own banners. He doesn't play the Game of Thrones like the other players.

He has remained in the shadows quietly making moves that strengthen his House slowly over time while attracting no attention beyond his bachelor status. This sudden stroke is blunt and straightforward like a bull charging a damaged fence. Like an axe to a limb. Stevron can respect the move even if he rages against it internally. He keeps his inner turmoil from his face and meets the black eyes of Lord Stel with his own grey orbs.

"I will convey your terms to my father. May his decision keep our houses from conflict." Lord Stel smirks and straightens. One hand falls to the axe at his belt and rests easy on the head.

"Indeed."

* * *

For two days the Twins remain silent but for the few ravens that are set free at twilight and at dawn. Five are downed by archers and a further three are hunted down by the hawks brought for just this purpose. For two days the green levies drill under the stern gaze of Ser Ronley at the edge of the camp for two hours in the morning and evening. The earthworks are completed after the first day and the supply trains are tucked neatly into the center of the camp. For two days Brandon plans with his advisors and listens to the news brought by the messengers from the Frey banners.

Jaime Lannister routed the forces of the Riverlands outside Riverrun itself and captured Ser Edmure Tully along with other Riverlords and knights. No gentle rage grips Brandon when he hears the news knowing that if Frey had called his banners and marched for Riverrun as he should have the outcome could have very well been different. As the sun was approaching midday a runner came with the news that Direwolf banners were spotted cresting the ridge opposite the Twins. For the first time in two days Brandon relaxes. When next the gates of the Twins open there are Direwolf banners and burly Northmen marching through them.


	3. Chapter 3

The Wolf's Axe

Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North, stares down his fellow Lord with his Tully blue eyes. His bannermen stand around him in an imposing circle within the war tent. A camp table with a map of Westeros is set at the center of the tent and is devoid of the pieces that will surely decorate it once the army begins its true march. For now, the future Lord of Winterfell judges Lord Brandon Stel. It is nothing less than he expected from the son of the most honorable man in Westeros. While many of the Lords present celebrate Brandon's move to blunt House Frey's ambition Robb seems incapable of realizing that what Brandon did was the best possible solution.

"I fail to see why you are so...disturbed my Lord," Brandon comments flatly.

"You were called to march for _Riverrun_ not the _Twins_. I doubt Lord Tully would appreciate his banner men drawing swords on one another when the Lannisters burn his lands to ash."

"My Lord if you think that Lord Frey had _any_ intention on marching to aid his Liege Lord then you are a fool. I'm sure you noticed that he is still mustering his house's forces: they were all in their keeps. If I hadn't been here then you would have had to _negotiate_ for crossing when that _weasel's_ men should have already been marching for Riverrun, and you would no doubt have been extorted for a marriage." Robb stiffens at that last point. No doubt Walder would have... insinuated his desires for the price of crossing. A marriage between the most powerful house of the largest kingdom and another who is not even Lord Paramount? Madness.

"The fact remains that you have attacked—"

"I did no such thing. I reminded a fellow Lord of the _oaths_ he _swore_ to his Liege. If you knew anything of Lord Walder Frey you would know that he serves _one_ man in all the world: himself."

"Lord Frey is a loyal bannerman to my father and his family has held the crossing for six hundred years," Lady Catelyn chides. Brandon turns his dark eyes on the Lady of Winterfell who gifted her son with so many of his features.

"Lord Walder is a self serving old man who holds grudges like a Lannister hordes gold my Lady, and your father coining him "the Late Walder Frey" is probably his most valued grudge. He wouldn't have marched of anything less than the sight of your father on his knees _begging _for the Frey banners," Lord Brandon retorts savagely. He pushes back from the table and openly glares at Robb.

"Watch your tone boy," a gargantuan man, Brandon belatedly recognizes him from his vision, rumbles threateningly laying a hand on the pommel of his blade.

"I'll not apologize for speaking truth that I know that _Lord _Tully would support," he spits while staring daggers at Lady Catelyn. It's _her_ actions that brought the Lions to the Riverlands. What madness possessed her to arrest the son of the most prideful and powerful man in Westeros?

'_A grieving mother with more emotion than sense,'_ he answers himself. The tension in the tent is shattered as a pair of Northmen muscle a young boy through the tent flap.

"Pardon my Lords, but we've captured a Lannister scout," one reports as Robb rises from his chair and walks around the table. Theon Greyjoy, the smirking ward of the Starks, flips the map over before the spy can see the lack of any plans to which the Greatjon Umber chuckles darkly.

"Don't worry lad, he won't be leaving this tent with his head."

"Where did you find him?"

"In the brush above the encampment. He looked to be counting.

'_More of a boy than _I _am,'_ Brandon thinks to himself. He smirks when Robb asks a simple question of the spy.

"How high did you get?" The scout looks at the ground then up at the imposing form of the Greatjon.

"Twenty thousand, maybe more."

"You don't have to do this yourself, your father would understand!" a portly knight with an impressive, or unfortunate, white beard counsels from the rear of the Northmen congregation. Robb whirls around to interrupt the older man.

"My father understands _mercy_ when there is room for it. And he understands honor. And courage," Robb turns back to the scout. Brandon watches carefully. He can hear the numbers and thoughts running around in Robb's head. Many times throughout history the poets and bards forget the small moments that lead to the great battles and legendary campaigns. He will not miss a single one.

"Let him go." Every person present stiffens in shock. Brandon merely grins savagely and rests a hand on his axe. Now it begins: an opening gambit.

"Robb!" Catelyn exclaims as she erupts from her chair, shock draining her blood from her face. Robb stares at his mother with the icy blue orbs she gave him and eventually she subsides. He leans in towards the scout and mutters something quietly, so quietly that no one but the Lannister man can hear him speak. A jerk of his chin dismisses the guards and the scout. The moment the flap falls back into place the Greatjon storms forward in a fury and growls deep in his chest.

"Are you touched _boy? _Letting him go?" Robb is unphased.

"Call me boy again. Go on." His voice is flat and cold as the ice of his homeland. The imposing figure of the Greatjon towers over the Stark. Lord Umber's eyes flick around the tent looking for support and finding only stoney masks or Lord Stel's smirk. He makes to leave the tent with a growl only for a voice to stay his hand.

"You would not wait for your Lord's plan to be explained Lord Umber?" The giant of a man pauses and turns and cocks an eyebrow.

"Plan?"

* * *

Lord Bolton remains silent, a quiet sentinel in the corner of the tent, as the young Stark lays out his plan to fool the mighty Lannisters. His cold grey eyes watch the young man for weakness as a hawk hunts rabbits on the plain. The history of his family is written in the blood of Starks, Umbers, Glovers, Karstarks, and all the rest. One day the Flayed Man will fly above all others where it belongs but for now he bows to the Direwolf. He can admit the pup has a sharp mind when it comes to warfare as evident with his tricking of the Lannister scout to feed Tywin misinformation while still giving it a kernel of truth. Unbidden his eyes drift to one of the few Southerners in the tent this, Brandon Stel of the Stonekeep.

His father was a strong but unassuming man if his memory of the Trident holds true. The new Lord Stel carries his father's axe on his belt, the haft is the unmistakable white shot through with red of Weirwood while the head is an unassuming steel. An ancestral weapon but not one as valuable or famed as the Valyrian steel some houses possess. The boy's mind seems to be as sharp as his axe; he contributes little but it is always sound advice. His force is far from the strongest but it appears as though he has competent men in charge and, most importantly, he _listens_ to them.

The only major advice Robb Stark has heeded was placing Lord Bolton in command of the force moving to distract Tywin's force instead of the Greatjon. And that came from his mother.

"My Lord Stark, I would request to join my men with the distraction force," Lord Stel requests as the meeting falls silent. The boy, Robb, peers into Stel's eyes for a moment before nodding. A good move: almost a thousand extra foot can make all the difference in keeping a fighting retreat coherent, and the hundred or so lances under Lord Stel's banner would do little good in the pup's plan for dealing with the Kingslayer. Roose can use these extra men...and test out this young Lord's mettle for himself. All a knife needs to kill a knight is the smallest chink in his armor and Boltons pride themselves on being able to find the weak spot in any armor. This new player on the board could make all the difference if he is levered in the correct path.

The Leech Lord rest a hand on the pommel of his sword and watches as the other Lords jostle for positions of importance in the coming battles. Always quiet, always watching, always waiting. With a slight start he realizes that a pair of dark eyes are boring into him from across the candlelit table. Brandon stares hard at the Leech Lord, unflinching in the face of his cold almost dead eyes, and rest his own hand on his axe. The message loud and clear.

_You are watched._

The corner of the Leech Lord's mouth twitches in amusement.

* * *

The steady tramp of thousands of feet and beating drums sounds along the road before and behind him. The Riverlands were the sight of the climactic battle of King Robert's Rebellion and once more it plays host to massed armies of men bleeding each other dry for a few petty differences. How war's sweet siren song calls to man's hearts that they should seek it so easily. Lord Brandon huffs and takes in the cut of his men. They march tall and strong at the head of the column flying his house banners proudly for all to see. On the surface it is a great honor for the small house to march in the van of Lord Bolton's command, after all the very next banner to be seen is the flayed man of the Dreadfort. But in truth it is a political play: a brazen young man with a small, not insignificant, force at his back appears and begins making brazen and effective moves and is placed at the head of an army. The first force to make contact and the last to break it if it comes to a retreat thus suffering the most casualties.

If even half of his force survives the coming action it will be a miracle. In a twisted way he can understand it as he would likely make some of the same moves as Lord Roose but to be on the receiving end of them...is inconvenient. Still Ser Ronley remains confident of their success and he has more experience in the brutal attrition of war than he. The horse swaying beneath him tosses his head for a moment slapping the young Lord with his mane.

"Yes you honery creature you'll geat your damn apples when we stop," he scowls in mock anger and pats the black courser's neck affectionately. The hardy steed was bred by the Ryswells of the Rills, a famed family of horse breeders in the North, and was immediately identified by one of the knights in the small contingent sent by that house. Apparently House Ryswell dislike of Eddard Stark extends to holding to their oaths as well as never sending a good word by raven. If the rumors are to be believed. And rumors have a funny way of having a small grain of truth imbedded in them somewhere. A pounding of hooves announces the arrival of his nominal leader and a quartet of his stone faced guards in their ridged helmets and black armor.

"I understand this is your first taste of war Lord Stel," Roose says by way of a greeting. His cold grey eyes watch for the slightest sign of weakness, something that the younger Lord is weary of even if Robb Stark is not.

"It is Lord Bolton. I have drilled, and drilled, and drilled but never have I led a host. It makes one wonder why you would let one such as I lead the vanguard?" Brandon replies ending with a comment inflected as a question. Bolton merely flashes a small smirk and stares ahead down the road.

"I have not yet informed the other Lords of my plans but...I do not plan to challenge Lord Tywin in the open. It is suicide with as few heavy horse as we have and the Lannister infantry will crush ours under their combined weight. I plan to march through the night on the morrow and catch the Lannisters by surprise. If all goes well we might be able to destroy a part of their army before they can properly form to greet us."

"Do we know exactly where they are?"

"No, just that they are moving towards the Green Fork to cross and support Ser Jaime's army's siege of Riverrun from the east." The younger Lord frowns and stares off into the distance.

"Our scout riders cannot venture any further from the bulk of our army without giving away our own position, we cannot afford to _not_ engage Tywin's force… what if we _don't _engage the Lions. What if we lead them on a merry chase to the east and towards the Mountains of the Vale. We can lay a small ambush when he begins his march. Foil their order and then retreat back towards King Robb and the rest of the army."

"...if we had more heavy horse I would back this plan. However we haven't the numbers for such an engagement. If a forced march at night can catch the Lions then our mission will be even more successful than our young Lord expected. If not then we shall maintain this army as best we can." The quiet Lord's hesitation encourages Brandon, confirming that his idea wasn't a bad one just not an option available to the Northmen with their forces. Unfortunate.

"If wishes were horses…" he mutters to himself.

"Indeed."

* * *

The morning sun races the Northmen along the horizon as they double time along the Kings road. Grim faced and dogged they do not make a sound and neither do the Rivermen among them. Lord Brandon grimaces as he takes in his men and the exhaustion dragging at their limbs from the early morning start. The small amount of sleep his men managed to snatch will come back to bite them later he is sure. A thousand men depend on him to keep them together and alive in the coming madness. The weight of their expectations is heavy on his shoulders and ever more does he curse the Lord of the Dreadfort for putting his men in the van.

The sun is shining cheerily above the tops of the trees as the Northmen erupt from the treeline opposite the Lannister encampment. A scowl twists Brandon's lips at the sight of the Lannister force already forming ranks, all crimson and gold. Lions adorn their banners, and are emblazoned across their shields announcing to all the world their loyalty. Twenty thousand of them. The Northmen swiftly form ranks of their own with what little cavalry they possess after Robb Stark stripped them for his surprise maneuver massing on their right flank.

Brandon shouts orders of his own forming his men into a simple formation of infantry to the front in a shield wall and the archers behind them. His eyes cast across the fields at the portion of the Lannister army opposing him. He recognizes most of the banners as the gold lion on crimson of Lannister...but there are a few of a different kind that sends a chill down his spine. Three hounds on a field of yellow. The sigil of the Cleganes and, perhaps more infamously, the Mountain that Rides. And the Mountain himself is seated on a massive black charger at the center of his formation looking right at Brandon.

* * *

**IMPORTANT! I am now in Guam onboard the USS Emory S. Land and that means that I will have a significantly different schedule from now on. I work for a living and wifi isn't always available on this tiny, humid, spit of land in the middle of the Pacific. Updates are in all likelihood going to be slower but hopefully I can continue to upload at all. Thank you for your understanding.**


	4. Chapter 4

Bloody Fork

The Mountain stares across the open field at Lord Brandon Stel. An inexperienced welp who in the words of Greatjon Umber pisses grass because he is so green. His men shift anxiously before him wavering before the first blow is delivered. Lord Bolton has signaled the halt at the edge of the trees. Brandon looks behind his lines glaring at the hills that his men would be crushed again, and then to the right at the banks of the swollen Green Fork that denies a retreat that way. When it is called he will have to keep in close contact with the Hornwood levies beside him to keep from being cut off.

And pray that the Mountain doesn't have the heavy horse and numbers needed to push them against those hills and be cut to pieces.

"Damn you Bolton," he hisses beneath his breath and urges his horse down the line. Quiet words of warning are spread among his sergeants and captains, warning them of what they are to do if they are pushed back as he fears they will be. All of them nod and stare at the enemy grimly not letting the exhaustion dragging at their limbs affect them. They press tight together in a seamless shieldwall bristling with spears. The blue banners of Stel fly proudly above the Rivermen alongside the Direwolves of Stark and the moose of the Hornwoods.

It brings him no joy nor excitement as his first battle is likely to be his last. The Leech Lord has placed his forces on the worst ground he could for a delaying action and any retreat is likely to be a bloody and chaotic affair. Most of his men will probably not see the next sunrise no matter how neat they make it. Battle has a funny way of taking more men's lives than it strictly needs to he's been told.

"My Lord the Lannisters are moving," Ser Ronley rumbles from beneath his great helm. The young Lord's scowl deepens and he kicks his horse to the center of his line.

"We can't give an inch of ground to the Mountain if we want to keep our men intact. I want a score of our knights pulled back as a reaction force wherever that brute strikes us. No heroes...we're just going to stick him with a few lances. Fuck swords."

"Aye my Lord, I'll see to it." The older knight rides away in a flurry of dirt clods kicked up by his steed's hooves. Across the fields...death approaches. Not the solid wall of crimson and gold like the center and right flanks of the Lannister army no. Death comes in the form of murderous reavers, wild men in tattered animal hide carrying hammers and axes, and the most feared man on the field. The Mountain.

"Hold steady boys! Let these fucks stick themselves on your spears! The Mountain bleeds just like you and me...and he's a bigger target for the archers!" Brandon shouts to a few ragged cheers from his men. Fear grips them tightly. He can see it in their pale faces, and a few streams of urine trailing down scuffed boots. He can't blame them. Stories of what Gregor Clegane did to the former royal family play in his mind. The stories of the reaving and raping of his own homeland replace them swiftly.

"That's the bastard that has raped our country's sisters and daughters and butchered our sons and fathers! He'll do the same to ours," Brandon exclaims surprising himself with the hatred in his own voice.

"Will you bow down and let them destroy our lands? Or will you stand and keep yours oaths with steel!?" The Rivermen roar in response and beat their shields with their spears as the Mountain leads his men forward. A rolling mass of flesh and anger and steel barreling towards his line. The men sworn to House Stel stand strong, locking their shields together in a seamless wall and bracing their spears against the earth in preparation for receiving the charge.

"Archers, knock!" Ser Ronley bellows. Shafts rattle against the bodies of bows as they are pressed into place.

"Draw!" The bows groan and men grunt with the exertion of drawing their longbows.

"Loose!" Strings smack against leather bracers as the tension is released and the shafts are launched into the sky. Thousands of arrows, like a swarm of bees, arc through the air and rain down on the Lannister vanguard. Dozens die in the opening volley, dozens of men and hundreds of horses leaving their riders to be trampled beneath those that come behind. The Mountain roars his anger and kicks his massive horse to greater speed distancing himself from his men.

"Loose!" a second volley slams into the Lannisters and fell more of them like a scythe through wheat. But still they come as a wall of metal and horseflesh ready to overwhelm the Northmen and Rivermen.

'_Not if I can help it.'_ The archers loose again and again before the Lannisters manage to close the distance and the foot make their presence felt. Screaming light horsemen and knights slam into the shield wall with all the force of a raging winter wind. Horses scream as they impale themselves on spears and men are thrown from their backs to be butchered. Blood sprays through the air and Brandon scowls. Those are his men being killed and doing his killing. They marched on his orders and under his banner to hold his oaths.

The line holds strong against the Mountain's reavers...mostly. The man himself roars in anger as his horse falls from under him with three spears piercing its belly. A great beast of steel plate with a greatsword clutched in a single massive fist he swings wildly around himself cutting men in half as if they were grass. Brandon tightens his grip on the reins of his horse as the Mountain drives a wedge through his men.

"We can't let the lines break...Ser Ronley take twenty riders and bolster that hole, I'll bring the rest in behind if you need it," he commands coldly. Ser Ronley grins and motions his men forward rushing for the gap. Brandon stands tall his stirrups and glares at the Lannister cavalry slowly pushing his men back. The leather reins groan in his hands as he watches his men shuffle back under the pressure.

"Archers bring those horses down!" he barks. Arrows fly through the air and slam into the lightly armored cavalry. Men topple from their horses or hide behind shields letting spears skewer them. The concentrated barrage manages to bring the pressure off of his men for a moment and dress their lines. Then the Lannister infantry slams home. Wild men and women in patched together armor and furs throw themselves at the shieldwall with a savage scream.

A massive man with two axes lays into the Stel bannermen splitting shields and skulls with every sweep. Another shatters the cohesion with a massive maul. A fierce overhead swing drives a man's skull down into his body with a sickening _crunch_.

"Damnit! All of you...follow me!" His visor slams closed and he lifts his lance high as if holding a banner. The man beside him does the same with the actual banner the early morning sun seeming to catch fire against the silver thread forming the crossed axes on blue. His heart hammers in his chest as he kicks his horse forward into a trot just as a gap opens in the infantry line before him. Eighty knights in full armor follow him setting their spurs to their mountains urging them to greater speed.

"Oaths and Steel! Stonekeep!" Brandon bellows and lowers his lance. The hammer wielding savage roars in challenge spraying spittle past his wild and tangled beard. A rusting hauberk is draped over his furs and a dog's jaw bone is the only protecting on his head. Brandon's lance pierces through the mail and out the other side as if it wasn't there. The force of the charge carries the man back and allows the lance to pierce another man before it shatters. Without pause Brandon rips his axe free of his belt.

"Stonekeep!" he shouts and swings down cleaving the skull of a screaming man with ears around his neck. Blood and bone sprays around him as his horse grinds forward kicking and biting as it was trained. Swords flash in the corner of his eye announcing help from his knights. A spear screeches across his breastplate before a sword drives through the owner's throat. The axe rises and falls like the hand of an avenging god felling a man with every swing. Blood sprays across his arms and chest. A man leaps for him locking a hand around his wrist. The hammer face of his axe crashes into the man's arm shattering the bones of the forearm. He disappears into the press of bodies with a scream.

The savages reel in shock from the charge and shrink back from the horses. Fear cutting through their murderous madness. Brandon loses count of the number of men he kills. They blur together in a feverish blur of murder and death and pain. A sharp pain piercing his upper arm is the first he knows of a spear piercing the muscle there through mail and leather backing. He snarls and caves in the spearman's skull with a blow of the hammer end of his axe.

"Men of Stonekeep push!" Brandon shouts, his normally quiet and even voice booming across the field if a little rough from the screaming. As one five hundred shields shove forward driving the Lannister back a step and allowing for the spears of Stonekeep to reap their toll. Tempered steel punches through leather, cloth, iron and flesh drawing fresh blood. The Lannister horsemen withdraw kicking their horses free of the press of bodies allowing the knights to do the same and the infantry flows together like water freed of its damn. Shields locking tight and their eyes studiously ignoring their dead comrades beneath their feet. Brandon wheels his horse about as his knights storm past him his eyes searching for his closest friend.

With a sinking heart he spots a pile of dead horses roughly where Ser Ronley had led twenty knights. And the Mountain is nowhere to be seen. Horns begin to blow along the Northmen lines. Crisp notes calling the withdraw before the Lannisters can begin to truly engage. The glittering lines of crimson steel are already advancing. Fury bubbles in his guts as he casts an eye over his recovering men, seeing how many of them are dead and wounded. The cost of battle so easily ignored by the nobility.

"Sound the withdraw! Collect the wounded."

"My Lord what of the dead?" a sergeant asks cautiously. Brandon swallows the lump of shame that suddenly appears in his throat.

"Leave them."

* * *

Tywin Lannister is not a man who takes failure very well. Victory is received as only his due. Watching the Northern army retreat from the field as his men withdraw back to their camp brings up a feeling of unease. There wasn't nearly enough cavalry for this to be the Northern force that his scouts reported. The Old Lion clenches his fists around the reins of his horse and scowls at his left flank. While the right was composed entirely of his Westerlands knights the left was a contingent of green riders and reavers under Gregor Clegane. They were meant to have tied up the Northern right so that their left would remain unsupported or the center would be weakened to reinforce the right.

None of that happened. The Stark boy kept his army in place as their opposing flanks butchered each other. Leaving them to the slaughter. Or so it would appear.

"What house is that? On our far left?" he asks aloud knowing that one of the toadies or his brother would answer eventually. The silence stretches. None of them answer. He turns in his saddle fixing his Lords with his stern, demanding glare and deepens his scowl.

"Are you telling me not a single one of you can recognize that banner?" the Old Lion growls.

"No...milord. They must be some lesser house of the North—"

"No they're from the Riverlands. I cannot remember their name but they have a keep north of the Twins," Kevin informs them as he arrives atop his huffing steed.

"Whoever they are, they managed to keep the Mountain at bay. I want to know them by tonight."

* * *

The cot set out in his tent reaches up with welcoming arms as he all but collapses into it. After the night march, a battle that lasted most of the morning, and then the march back to their camp followed by making sure that his men are properly cared for drained everything in his body. Still dressed in his bloodstained armor he lets his eyes slide shut...

"My Lord, Lord Bolton requests your presence." And then the Old Gods send their punishment for some past crime in the form of a young squire bearing a message from the Leech Lord. With a groan of exhaustion and a little soreness he pushes himself free of the cot. His steps seem to gain more weight with each one taken on the way to the tent. A hundred of his men lay dead beside the Green Fork and another hundred and fifty are too badly injured to fight for some time. The rest have almost all suffered injuries of some kind or another leaving him well below the strength he marched south with.

As he walks through his small part of camp his men give respectful, if tired, nods and call greetings to him. For their sake he walks tall and strong. Unbowed by what weighs his mind. He dons his stone mask to keep the emotions at bay. Lord Bolton's tent sits at the center of the encampment surrounded by banners bearing the Flayed Man. Stone faced guards just as grimy as himself stand at the entrance to the tent with long spears crossed over the entrance. Upon seeing him approach they uncross their weapons and gesture for him to enter.

The tent flap falls back into place behind him bathing the tent in ominous shadow. As his eyes adjust he takes in the meticulous order that is imposed on Lord Bolton's tent. Neat stacks of letters are set atop a simple table dominated by a well kept map of the Riverlands which is in turn held down by a dagger and a few mugs. The blankets atop his cot are neatly folded. The only thing that is out of order is Lord Bolton himself.

Sweat soaks through his surcoat along with a spattering of blood. A shallow cut along his cheek likely from an arrow is already scabbed over. His cold grey eyes are bloodshot and heavy bags hang under his eyes. But he still stands straight and tall dominating the tent with his sheer presence.

"You and your men fought well today Lord Stel," the Leech Lord complements in his usual unnerving, quiet voice. Brandon nods tiredly in appreciation. Inwardly he wonders what this is about. The almost blatant attempt to get him killed could only have been more obvious if he ordered a charge against the Lannister center. Alone. Lord Bolton is the craftiest of the Northern Houses when it comes to accumulating power, and what could concern him about a small house in the Riverlands?

'_One made smaller now,'_ he reminds himself with a pang of regret.

"We march to rejoin Lord Robb at Riverrun hopefully with word of his victory over the Kingslayer. Mayhaps this war will be done before winter. But I doubt it." The Lord of Dreadfort paces around the table his steps as quiet and menacing as his voice. Brandon maintains his stone mask and rests his hand on the head of his axe where it is tucked through his belt. His stance relaxed suppressing his growing nerves.

"I agree Lord Bolton. The Lions are too proud to let us win without beating us bloody."

"My thoughts are the same. To that end we need to keep the Lannisters from burning the Riverlands. If only to spare the army the task of retaking every keep _and_ chasing the reavers. No doubt he will send his favorite dog to do the burning. When we unite with Lord Robb I would...appreciate you helping me persuade him _not_ to dismiss the Riverlords."

"I can agree with that. We need every sword we can get and an arm to swing them to beat the Old Lion. But why are you talking to _me_ about this my Lord? And not one of the more powerful houses?" A minor River Lord is not going to change Lord Robb's mind about something, no matter how he has assisted the Starks. He is still viewed with suspicion for how he was seemingly so eager to draw swords on his neighbour.

"Because you are the one who secured House Frey's levies without having to suffer one of their bargains. Because you follow the Old Gods as we Northmen do. Because your men held against the Mountain without being forced back against the hills and cut to shreds like others might have. And because you are an unmarried Lord and he has an unmarried sister." At that Brandon chuckles and shakes his head.

"The day a _Stark_ marries a _Stel_ is the day a raven grows teeth and sings the Bear and the Maiden Fair. But...I see some of your points. I will support you in this. You have my word. Now if you'll excuse me we're both tired and my bed is singing a sweet song."

* * *

Beneath the walls of Riverrun, unaware of the fate of their Lord, the Lannister army sleeps. The night is silent and heavy with anticipation. Lupine amber eyes gaze down at the camps with the same hunger as their master burning brightly. The wolves circle the Lions in their beds. Horns sound bright and clear and as foreboding as winter winds. With a savage cry thousands of horses are kicked forward into a charge. The moonlight glints off the water of the rivers, the steel of the lances and swords, and the blood of the Lannisters staining the ground in the red of their house as they die.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowning

Riverrun looms large in the distance, the waters of the river shining brightly like silver parting around it. The ground before the walls is churned and scorched where the Lannisters made their camp. Brandon sighs heavily knowing what awaits within those well-crafted walls. Politics. The bane of his existence.

"The future of this war will be decided in that castle." After the long march to Riverrun the Lord of Stonekeep has become…adjusted to the quiet manner of Lord Bolton. He recognizes it as another tool to unbalance his opponents and prevent others from appearing. The Northern Lords are by-and-large honest and straightforward people and lack the conniving political streaks of the Southron Lords. But they are more stubborn than an old mule. And Lord Bolton lacks the impressive size of men like the Greatjon and Lord Karstark, so he must project presence another way.

"Aye, and here's to hoping nobody does anything rash. Tension is going to be high among the southern Riverlords with their keeps still in Lannister hands."

Hours of hard work and no small amount of shouting later sees the army encamped before the walls of Riverrun over the same earth the Lannisters were bled upon just a week before. Lord Stel wonders at the grim humor in that as he inspects a list of his men. Battered, and reduced in strength by nearly a third they remain in high spirits for the most part. Most of the knights Brandon sent with Ronley to face the Mountain didn't make it back to their lines leaving little doubt as to their fate but a solid sixty remain able to fight, another ten nursing wounds that will have them bed ridden for a time and their wives smacking them over their heads for being so stupid.

The foot took the brunt of the beating with around one-hundred and twenty-seven dead and another hundred injured in some way. In the end he retains around three-hundred and seventy fighting infantry and his two hundred archers. The remainder either died at the Green Fork or are too badly hurt to continue fighting.

He feels somewhat ashamed at the sigh of relief he felt at the news. Less than he thought but still far too many are sent to the Gods. The grey walls of his tent press in around him in judgement.

_'__How many more will die for me? How much more suffering is there to be had for the pride of a few?'_ He knows the answer without having speak the words aloud.

Too much. A soft knock at his tent's entrance breaks him from his thoughts. Dark eyes pin the young page in place for a moment before Brandon clears his throat.

"Apologies my lord but Lord Robb is calling a meeting of all the lords." Brandon nods silently in dismissal. Blank eyes turn back to the map of Westeros stretched out across his small camp table. The totems for the Stark forces and the known positions of Lannisters are set up around Riverrun and Harrenhal. The Lions still outnumber the Direwolf even with the addition of the Frey and Tully levies. Tywin has marshaled his army at the ancient seat of Harren the Black no doubt pondering his next move while trying to get his house in order. No one was truly ready for this war, even if the King was a competent ruler the country was going to fall to chaos the moment war broke out.

His eyes stray towards High Garden and the powerful army the Reach can muster. When the sleeping giant awakens and picks a side someone will have the numbers to take the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. If they can convince the Fat Flower to back them. The rumors circulating through the kingdoms leans towards the Tyrells supporting Renly Baratheon's bid. The noted close friendship between Ser Loras and Lord Renly, to the point of being lovers some say, and the bachelorhood of both Renly and Margaery Tyrell opening the path to the throne as the flowers have always wanted.

Dorne is likely to remain as far from the conflict as possible content to let the other kingdoms butcher each other. The desert kingdom has never been a major player in the grand scheme for the throne and has no love for the Baratheons, Lannisters, or Starks. The spears of Dorne have not and will not move from their home.

The Iron Islands are a wildcard; their hatred for both the North and the Westerlands coupled with the ambitions of Balon Greyjoy make the Ironborn a rabid dog. They'll circle the fighting and strike where they feel the other kingdoms are weakest…if nothing is done about them. A nation of raiders and pirates knows only those things and thinks only of those things. With a heavy sigh he pushes himself from his chair.

"Time to stop putting it off…"

The Northern and Riverlands Lords shout to be heard over each other. The news of Eddard Stark's death has hit many of them hard, the former Warden of the North was well respected or loved, and harkens back to the days of the Mad King when no man or woman was safe. That King Joffrey broke his supposed word and executed the Lord of Winterfell on the steps of the Sept of Balor? Madness pure and simple. Brandon remains silent as the older lords debate their next move and even begin pointing fingers.

His anger boils just beneath the surface, building like a volcano while the older men shout each other down or allow old grudges to show through. All try and curry favor with the new Lord of the North. Robb Stark remains silent as well resting his bearded chin on his laced fingers while his men argue. Stel shifts on the simple wooden bench provided for the meeting and casts his gaze around the assembled Lords. Lords Umber and Karstark are in each other's faces bellowing at the top of their lungs. Lord Bolton and Bracken are discussing something of vital import quietly, speaking just loud enough that none but they can hear them.

Lady Meage Mormont, the ruler of Bear Island is gesturing with her spiked mace towards the walls while arguing with Ser Piper.

_'__Meanwhile the Lannisters are gathering their strength and Gods know what the Baratheons and Tyrells are doing right now. We need a task, a direction, and we need it now. The longer we argue over what we should do or who is to blame the longer our enemies have to recover from their losses.'_

Brandon stands from his seat and rips his axe free of his belt. The heft of his ancestral weapon is reassuring as he turns to face the table. With a savage roar he brings it up and slams the hammer face into the table with enough force to snap the central plank and rip it free of the nails keeping it down. All conversation dies in an instant at the deafening report of snapping wood.

"_Enough!_ While we sit here arguing like children the Lannisters are reorganizing! If you have nothing useful to say _shut up and sit down!_" he bellows at the stunned Lords. Many sink back into their seats before their minds can process what just happened.

"Our course is clear: we cannot follow Joffrey, and Renly is not next in line to be King…that means that Stannis is next to take the Throne. If there is another option let it be heard," Brandon declares coldly and stares at each of them in the eye. Many are glazed over in thought and it is only when the Greatjon Umber, Lord of Last hearth and the Mountain of the North, stands from his seat that Lord Stel takes his own.

"Lord Stel speaks true. But…my Lords I do have another option. Three hundred years ago we kneeled to the Dragons. Since then what has the South given us? Naught but suffering and death. Bad kings, and Mad Kings. Here's what I say to these southern cunts." The massive man spits on the ground drawing laughter from his fellow lords and ladies. Brandon's lip twitches.

"What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Why shouldn't we rule our selves again? The Starks ruled us true for thousands of years and ruled us truly. The _only _man I mean to bend _my_ knee to is sitting right there," the Greatjon draws his massive ugly sword, plants the tip in the ground and kneels before Robb Stark.

"The King in the North!"

A heavy silence drapes itself over the gathering. None move to be the next to support the Greatjon for several breaths. Then Lord Karstark stands and casts his hard gaze around at the other Lords and Ladies still sitting.

"I'll have peace on those terms. They can _keep_ their red castle, and their iron chair too! The King in the North!"

Brandon blanks out what Theon Greyjoy says when he kneels. He sits staring at his hands.

_'__Can we do this? Can we break the faith in a throne that has kept seven kingdoms bound for three hundred years? Do we have any other choice?'_ he wonders to himself and only looks up at the man who would be his King when every other Lord is finished kneeling. Brandon swallows clearing the lump in his throat.

"Do you _swear_ before the Old Gods…to hold to your oaths and put your people before yourself?" Lord Stel's voice echoes in the sudden silence. Grey eyes bore into bright blue.

"I swear to put my people before my own ambitions, and to lead you all through the coming winter and all those after. Until the end of my days," King Robb swears with the strength of the Kings of Winter in his voice. Brandon stares for a heartbeat longer then nods quietly and draws his axe from its loop once more.

"King in the North!"

**A/N: Not really happy with this but felt like I needed to put something out. Hopefully the next one will be better.**


End file.
